


Before the Legend

by Benson_Arizona



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Daedra, F/F, Slow Burn, set before the return of the dragons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-11-14 20:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18059228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benson_Arizona/pseuds/Benson_Arizona
Summary: When three students at the college of Winterhold disappear, the young Archmage sets out to find them before they get themselves into more trouble than they can survive. Her search brings her home to The Reach, and into the midst of a struggle between the wills of beings both powerful and dangerous.Borgakh the Steel Heart awaits her inevitable marriage with dread, but a simple errand goes wrong, and she is entangled in a shadowy conflict alongside a pain in the ass mage.Every story starts somewhere, every legend has its beginning, and no one is born a hero.





	1. A Stranger From the East

Morning light flashed against Borgakh’s sword as she swung it into the dummy with as much force as she could muster. Larak, her father, was sitting to her right, just on the edge of her vision; he was eating, a plate of meat and bread on the rough table before him. She could tell he was watching her from the corner of his eye, so she kept swinging. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and against her armor, but she didn’t stop.

She was angry, angry that he would send her away, angry that she was destined to marry some puffed up chieftain and spend her life tied to his clan, angry that none of them would take her side. They had fought again the night before, enraged and shouting in the cold rain, and he had struck her across the face with his armored fist, sent her spinning into the cold mud. Her skin had torn and bruised, and she had ached to punch him back – to put him on his ass where he belonged. But she hadn’t. Duty to her clan, to her mother, had held her back. She was glad, she guessed, that she hadn’t struck him in return. Her mother had spent many long years in Mor Khazgur and she wouldn’t tarnish that now.

It was her duty as an orc – that was always what she told herself - it had always been this way, and it always would be. She just wished she knew who it was she was marrying, and where she would be going. The strongholds were spread across Skyrim, from The Reach to The Rift, and she could go to any of them. It made her uneasy.

Sometimes she wondered why she cared so much. After all, being the wife of a chieftain wouldn’t be that much different than her life as it was – she would just be somewhere else, and she would have to have his children. That part bothered her. She couldn’t picture it – of course she knew what was done to have children, but she couldn’t imagine herself doing it. Even trying made her a little queasy. She spun, bringing her sword down with extra force. It cracked against the wood beneath the dummy’s stuffed exterior and golden straw streamed down into the mud, but she didn’t care.

Draw back, spin, strike, block, it all blurred together and the world around her faded to the background. Larak at the table was forgotten, and the sound of the stronghold’s horses and the forge registered only distantly.

Time blurred, her hair sticking to her head and neck under the sun climbing in the sky, but something jerked her out of her reverie. The horses were neighing, and her mother, Bagrak, was looking intently out over the valley. She dropped the dull practice sword and lunged for her real one. Usually Forsworn weren’t stupid enough to try to storm an orc stronghold, but every once in a while a particularly bold group would test the waters.

She climbed the palisade and looked out over the sharpened logs, but all she saw was a lone rider coming from the east on a black horse making their way up the ill marked track toward the gate at a leisurely canter. They had no weapons beyond an expensive looking dagger at their waist, but she thought they looked to be a mage, as they sported a hood and a set of gear that she believed belonged to the college in Winterhold. Bagrak held her bow deceptively loose, an arrow nocked but not yet drawn.

“Hold!” she called as the rider clattered up the last rise before the gate. “What brings you this way, outlander?”

The rider slowed, then stopped, reaching up to push back their hood. Borgakh studied them with mild interest. It was a woman, human, probably only a few years older than herself. She had dark hair cut short - shaved on the sides, and a thin but wiry frame beneath her gear. It would be easy to mistake her for a small man at a glance.

“I bring word from Narzulbur for one of the orcs here,” the rider said, voice raised to carry over the distance.

“Which orc?”

“Lagruz. His brother asked me to bring him a dagger since I was already headed this way.”

Bagrak studied her for a moment. “Very well,” she said, and lowered her bow.

Someone below pushed open the gate, and the rider swung down from her horse. Borgakh watched her pass beneath them, leading the horse by the reins. She let out a heavy sigh and shivered, the sweat on her back becoming cold in the breeze atop the wall.

“How are you, daughter?” Bagrak’s voice was pitched low enough that Larak wouldn’t hear from across the yard.

Borgakh glanced at her. “I’m fine,” she said, staring down at her boots.

“He shouldn’t have done that to you.” Bagrak’s fingers brushed her cheek where the skin was bruised and scabbed.

She flinched and swatted her mother’s hand away. “It was what I deserved. He’s my chief and I shouldn’t have challenged him.”

“It would be best if you didn’t do that again. I know it seems harsh, and you don’t want to marry. I didn’t either. But it isn’t as bad as you think it will be.”

“Yes, mother.” She looked at her boots again.

“You’ll be alright.” Bagrak clapped her on the shoulder, then turned to follow the human.

She stood for a moment longer, looking out across the green valley. Snowy peaks rose all around, and water glistened in the distance; a few scrubby trees littered the slopes, and the plume of a waterfall trailed above a high ridge. The sun fell just so, illuminating it all with a soft glow. With a shake of her head she tore her eyes from the view and turned back into the stronghold.

Bagrak and the mage had stopped in front of the alchemist’s shack, and Bagrak was gesturing toward the mine up on the ridge. “Borgakh!” She called. “Bring the traveler to Lagruz.”

“Fine,” Borgakh grunted, sheathing her sword and glancing ruefully at the dummy and the discarded practice sword. “Follow me.”

“Is it alright if I leave my horse in the yard?” the mage asked. “I don’t think she’d do too well in a mine.” There was a wry twist to her lips.

Borgakh snorted. “Just tie her up so she doesn’t run off.”

The mage tied the horse loosely to a post, then started after her up the hill. The hammers in the smithy were loud, ringing in the mid-morning air, and she breathed in the scent of smoke and hot metal.

“How are things in this end of Skyrim?” the human asked.

Borgakh glanced at her. It was a slightly odd way to try to start conversation, but it didn’t really matter. “Well enough,” she said. “There isn’t as much money in ore as you’d hope, but we make due.” She was proud of the stronghold, of the living they made for themselves despite the hardship.

“Nothing out of the ordinary has happened recently?”

Borgakh glanced at her again, a little puzzled. “No, why?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen a few college mages, a conjuror, an illusionist, and a battlemage, to be exact?”

“No.” Borgakh shook her head. “Not many people out this far.”

“No other travelers then?”

“You’re the first in a while.”

“Alright.” The human sighed. “Thanks anyway.”

“Your mages, what’d they do?”

“Oh.” - the mage looked up, almost startled – “They haven’t done anything, or at least I hope they haven’t. They’re just missing.”

“You’re from that college in Winterhold?” They were almost at the top of the slope, the valley stretching out before them in a beautiful expanse.

“Yes, I’m a scholar there.”

“And here I thought all serious mages were old men with beards and sticks.”

The mage snorted. “Up their asses, maybe.”

Borgakh barked a laugh and pulled open the rickety door to the mine. “After you,” she said.

The mage stepped into the dark. Borgakh saw her hand twitch, and with a sizzling snap a ball of light appeared, floating above her head. She had seen Sharamph use the same trick before, but it was still startling; the light it cast was bright and tinted slightly blue – not like the warm light of a torch. Shadows leapt and danced on the walls in the strange light, and it glinted dully against green orichalcum veins. Borgakh led the way down the slanted mine shaft, an exaggerated shadow preceding her. Pickaxes rang against stone somewhere deeper in the shafts, and she followed the sound.

Figures moved in the flickering torchlight ahead. “Lagruz,” She called. “Someone here to see you.”

One of the figures straightened, blinking into the strange light. “Yeah,” he grunted.

The mage stepped forward, holding out a sheathed dagger. “Your brother wanted you to have this.”

He took it carefully, unsheathing it and testing the blade with his thumb; he winced and Borgakh saw blood well against his skin. “Its sharp. Good. He is learning well, then?”

The mage nodded. “He thought you would approve.”

“I do. If you see him again, tell him.” Lagruz nodded slowly. “Thank you, human.”

“Don’t mention it.” The mage dipped her head and turned back up the slope, seeming to remember the way.

“You came a long way for one dagger,” Borgakh observed quietly, falling in behind her.

The mage shrugged. “A hunter from Narzulbur told me she saw the mages I’m tracking, said they were headed this way, and it wasn’t many miles off my path to deliver the dagger so there wasn’t really anything to lose.”

“How can you know where your mages have gone if no one near here has seen them?”

“At a guess, I’d say they’ve gone to Markarth – it’s the only place to go on this end of the country. Maybe they went to see Calcelmo, or maybe there’s something I need to know. Either way, that’s where I’m going.”

Borgakh nodded, and they fell silent, the sound of pickaxes ringing over their footsteps till they stepped back out onto the mountainside. She blinked, the light stinging her eyes for a second. Larak was waiting for her at the foot of the slope down past the smithy.

“Daughter,” he called as she led the mage down the slope. “There is something you must do.”

“What do you need?” Borgakh asked, her eyes following the mage as she passed them by with a nod, continuing on toward Sharamph’s hut.

He held out a chunk of ore. “Take this to Dushnikh Yal. Chief Burguk needs more ore for his forge, and good orichalcum is rare. An arrangement with him would be good for us.”

She took the ore, hefting it. It was probably fifteen pounds of solid veined orichalcum. “Fine,” she said.

“Good. Go quickly. I don’t want someone to beat us to him.”

“No one else is going?”

“It’s not far through the hills. One rider should be enough, and any more could slow you down.”

She ducked her head in deference. Usually two or three orcs went on hunts and errands, but it would be slower, and Larak didn’t want slow. She would just have to be careful not to tangle with the forsworn.

The quickest route would be overland, by the goat paths up through the hills that would lead down to the road a day’s ride from Markarth. It would take a solid week to get there and another to get back, she thought, so two weeks of supplies. What she needed would be in the longhouse. Her bag was heavy by the time she packed it all, but it was manageable. She stowed the chunk of ore in the bottom, sitting heavy against her back. Her bow and arrows and her shield were against her shoulder, and her sword was at her hip.

The mage was gone by the time she left the longhouse, and the stronghold had returned to normal. Bagrak stood on the wall keeping watch as always, but Larak was nowhere to be seen.

“If the forsworn give you trouble teach them a lesson.” Bagrak said, voice raised a little, as she walked down to the gate. “And if you’re not back in two weeks I’ll drag you back here myself.”

“I can handle a few forsworn. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.” Bagrak crossed her arms, indignant. “I trained you myself. If you can’t ride to Dushnikh Yal and back then you aren’t my daughter.”

“Right.” Borgakh shook her head, smirking. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Good luck,” Bagrak called after her as she walked through the gate. “Ride well.”

Grass swished around her boots, and she readjusted the pack on her back, pulling it up against her shoulders. The horses were in a paddock a short walk away, but she could see some of them spread out among the scrubby trees. Coming over the small rise before the paddock, she saw Larak standing by the fence, her horse, Bolar, saddled beside him.

She sighed, slowing; she had hoped to leave without speaking to him again, but apparently he wasn’t going to let her. If he tried to apologize she would laugh, but she didn’t think he would. No, he looked serious, and not particularly sorry about anything.

“Daughter, a word,” he said.

“What?” She ground out, checking Bolar’s saddle.

“Try to catch chief Burguk’s eye. He may have interest in taking a fourth wife.”

She drew in a breath, the anger bubbling up again. “Fourth wife? Really? Is that all you think I can be for a stronghold?”

“Fourth wife in Dushnikh Yal is more than you’ll ever be in this stronghold or any other. Have a little sense. Besides, we need the money.”

“Yes, chief,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Good. Now go.” He turned away, making his way back toward the stronghold.

She glared after him for a long moment, then untied Bolar. “At least you aren’t an asshole,” she said, carefully stroking the mare’s nose.

She swung onto Bolar’s back, turning her to the south up the valley. The afternoon sun was to her back, heating the metal of her armor, and shining against the little streams coming down from the mountains. The ground rose gradually, and Bolar cantered loosely through the grass; she was a mountain horse with sure footing and good sense, so Borgakh gave her her head. After an hour she could look back and see Mor Khazgur spread out below, dwarfed by the snow shrouded slopes rising above it, peaking just beneath the clouds.

It was an impressive view, and she reined Bolar in. On all sides the mountains rose, evergreens and scrubby trees dotting their lower slopes, and bare rock and snow higher up. On some of the slopes she could see the distinctive stonework of Nordic ruins, carved into the mountains, or crumbling across them from centuries of neglect. The air was sharp, keen. It carried the scent of snow, and grass, and mud all at the same time. She could hear water running, Bolar’s hooves against the hard ground, and wind rushing through the grass. She drew in a breath, letting the free air fill her lungs. Whatever came next, this was good. It would always be good, and was always good, and if she remembered it, it would never leave her.

The valley went on for a long way, rising up slowly and narrowing till it met a river that roared down from the glacier-capped ranges and off a precipitous cliff that marked her journey in the valley’s end. It was almost dark by the time she reached it, and the setting sun colored the mist rising from the waterfall with a soft glow. Even at a distance the roar of the water was deafening, and she could feel the cold mist against her skin.

She turned, following a little trail west along the river. It switch-backed up the side of the mountain, and eventually it would cross the river higher up where it was but a stream. Bolar scrambled up the steep and rocky path, and Borgakh stood in the stirrups, leaning forward to help her.

Even after riding up countless such paths on hunts and errands, the sensation of the height from horseback was still almost dizzying, and she had to stop herself from staring at the drop at her side. It was a little different this time, she thought - there was no one with her, no one to see her fall, and no one to help her if she did. She would not fall, she told herself. She had never fallen, and she would not fall this time.

Fortunately, she did not fall. Bolar heaved up the last slope, a little sweat standing out against her dappled coat. Though it had been dark in the valley, the sun still hit the grey rocks up high. Borgakh urged Bolar forward, away from the slope. She would stop soon, and she wanted to be away from the drop when she did. Ahead, through a trench cut in the rock, she knew the path would be grassy again.

Bolar’s ears swiveled, and Borgakh heard a rock clattering away down the sheer slope. “Come on, girl,” she said. “Just a little further.”

Two things happened in the same instant: first, Bolar surged under her, dropping and leaping to the side, and second an arrow struck her in the arm with a dull crack, the force sending her tumbling into space. She hit the ground hard, stone digging into her shoulder and knocking her breath away. Her head spun, and she pushed up off the ground despite the pain in her right arm. There was movement on the rocks, and she ducked just in time as another arrow clattered against the stone to her left. Cover. That was what she needed. She charged for the trench, reaching for her sword and shield.

It was dark between the two walls of stone, and she sensed movement ahead more than she saw it. A knife barked against her shield, and another in close succession. She spun, slashing for her faceless assailant. Her sword hit flesh, biting deep, and she heard a strangled cry. It was the sound of a dying man.

Footsteps in the dark behind her, impossibly loud against stone. She turned too late, and a blade bit into her armor, lodging despite its owner’s tugging. She struck them with her shield, then jabbed forward toward what she guessed was their chest. A sharp gasp escaped them, then nothing more. Suddenly, it was quiet. She stood still for a long moment, waiting, but there was nothing.

Bolar. She had to find her. She stumbled back into the dwindling light, grasping her arm and the arrow. It wasn’t bleeding too badly, and the head had gone all the way through. She was fortunate.

“Bolar!” The shout had hardly cleared her lips when she heard another step in the dark. She tensed, but before she could move a spear of ice caught her in the back, driving partially through her armor, and propelling her off the sheer edge of the slope. She spun, weightless for a moment that felt far too long, then she struck the path below. The impact jolted through her, and the world flickered. She was rolling down the slope, then she hit the wall, the faint stars above her glimmering distantly.

The world flickered again, seeming to become very small and very far away, and there was a sharp ringing in her ears. She drew in a shuddering breath, then another.

She would just lay there for a second, she told herself, then she would stand up, keep moving. Her left leg hurt, she realized, and her arm, and her back. The arrow had broken off, part of its splintering haft remaining in the wound. She drew in a deep breath, let it out, and struggled to sit up. The pain was instant and she nearly gave in, but she forced herself up, leaning awkwardly against the inner side of the path.

Her side hurt with the persistent sting of a pulled muscle, and her back where the ice had struck was numb. The ringing in her ears faded, and she sat quiet, listening. Someone was moving at the top of the path, walking back and forth, but they didn’t start down. Her sword was gone, lost in the fall, and her hand fell to the dagger at her belt. After what felt like an eternity the footfalls faded away into distance, back up through the cut in the rock.

She let out a sharp breath and forced herself to stand. Her leg burned, but it didn’t feel broken – only badly strained. She grimaced, taking a limping step using the slope to support herself. One foot after the other, she told herself. Keep moving.

She found her sword and shield halfway up the slope where she landed. It hurt, but she slung the shield over her shoulder and slid the sword into its sheath. If the mage who knocked her off the cliff was still out there she would need it. It was completely dark when she reached the top, clouds obscuring the moons and the stars. There was no sign of Bolar, and she limped into the relative cover of the cut before letting herself slump to the ground again.

First, she would deal with the arrow, then she would let herself rest. There wasn’t much she could do with her back on her own, and she wasn’t sure how bad it was, so she tried not to think about it. Wincing as she moved, she took hold of the tip of the arrow, pulling it loose. It stung, and a little blood oozed over her armor. She wound a strip of cloth from her pack over her sleeve, slowing the bleeding enough for it to stop itself. Her breath came in short gasps through the pain, and she let her head fall back against the stone; her eyes slipped shut, and she focused on slowing her breathing.

Time seemed to move slowly, but also very fast, in that dark. It was cold, and she sat there, back to the stone, teeth chattering in her head. Without the moons and stars it was impossible to tell whether minutes were passing, or if it had been hours.

She was certain it had been over and hour, though, maybe two or three, when she heard movement again. A horse – no, two, were coming down the trail toward the cut. She held her breath, sitting very still. They were moving slowly, and she heard the footsteps of a person as well.

“What were you doing all alone up there, horse?” The person said, tone conversational. The voice was a little rough, maybe a man or maybe a woman, and the mild accent sounded oddly familiar. “And don’t try to tell me you’re a wild horse, either. Wild horses don’t get saddles. No, someone lost you, and at a guess they probably need you back. Unless they’re an ass – a nice horse like you doesn’t deserve an ass. Nothing against actual asses, of course. Just metaphorical asses.”

The person and the horses were getting closer, and Borgakh tensed. “What do you think, Alli,” the person said, still apparently talking to the horses. “Where do you think the poor bastard who owns dapples over here is? Hopefully they didn’t run into the forsworn. Sorry if they did, dapples. Unless they were an ass. But I don’t think so. You’re not very shy, huh? If they were an ass you would be skittish.”

Footsteps sounded against the stone in the cut, and Borgakh lurched to her feet through sheer force of will. “Halt!” She barked, fumbling for her sword.

She heard the horses jump, shoes clattering, and light flashed in her eyes. She blinked, squinting into a blinding light. By degrees, she was able to make out the silhouette of what looked like a mage, sparks of electricity flickering around one of their hands, the other holding the reins of two very agitated horses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks, I am fully aware that orc strongholds do not have horses in the game. However, I find it moderately ludicrous that there are only like fifteen living horses in all of Skyrim, so I have elected to ignore particulars in favor of fun. Also in general I tend to make up a lot of background characters for the sake of simplicity, Lagruz being an example in the chapter.


	2. The Broken Hills of Home

Braeden Meric considered herself hard to startle – even unflappable. But when the bloody orc leapt from the shadows, shouting and reaching for a weapon, it was all she could do to stop herself from letting loose with a lightning bolt that could easily have turned the orc to ash and blown a hole in the rock outcropping. Thankfully, Alli and the dapple grey lurched back, dragging her with them, and she managed to preserve just enough composure cast a light before she hit anything with lightning.

The light was blinding after the starless night, and she blinked, lightning flickering in her palm, waiting for the orc to move. But they didn’t, and as her eyes adjusted Brae recognized them: she had been in the stronghold, the one who led her through the mine.

“Wait.” She lowered her hand a fraction. “I’m not your enemy.”

“Who are you?” The orc sounded confused, and judging by the way she held herself, she was wounded.

“I was at your stronghold yesterday. The name’s Braeden.” She lowered her hand more, and willed the electricity away.

“What are you doing out here?” The orc was still tense, but she hadn’t drawn a weapon.

“Going to Markarth.”

“How do you know this path? No one knows it that didn’t grow up here.”

“Lucky thing I grew up here, then.” Brae chewed her lip, studying the orc. “You’re hurt. I can help.”

The orc relaxed a fraction, her hand falling from the hilt of her sword. “That horse,” – she squinted at the dapple grey through the light hovering between them – “is it a dapple grey?”

“Yeah, tore through my camp up the trail a couple hours ago. She yours?”

“Bol?” the orc called, looking past Brae to the horse. It nickered and relaxed.

Brae let the horse step past her to sniff the orc. “What in the nine happened, anyway?”

“Some bastard forsworn ambushed me.” The orc glanced back into the cut, eyes settling on two dark shapes sprawled on the edge of the light.

Brae twitched her fingers, raising the light and making it stronger. It cast the bodies in harsh relief against the stone. Her eyes narrowed. “Those don’t look like forsworn.”

“What?” The orc turned, stumbling slightly. “Who then?”

The figures were wearing dark robes, and hoods obscured their faces. One of them had been cut nearly in half, and the other was slumped against the wall of the cut, a dark smear on the stone behind them. Brae handed the horses wordlessly to the orc. She skirted around the disemboweled figure, instead stooping and sliding back the stabbed one’s hood. It was a man, probably a nord, with dark paint smeared over one of his eyes. She ran her finger under the collar of his shirt, against his icy skin, feeling for an amulet. Fine chain met her fingers, and she pulled it loose, jerking it free from his rigid neck with a faint snap.

She held it up, glinting in the light. It was fine metalwork, masterful even – a skull-like depiction, horned, with an unhinged grin. Molag Bal. “Cultists,” she said.

“Cultists?”

“Cultists of Molag Bal.” She held the amulet out for the orc to see.

“What were they doing up a goat path?” The orc sounded incredulous.

Brae studied the amulet again, and the man she had taken it from. He was a little older than her, but not much - young by most standards. It was an awful waste of a life, but that was how Molag Bal operated. It didn’t really make sense, though – unless the orc had something they wanted.

“Why were you out here?” She asked as casually as she could manage.

The orc’s eyes narrowed. “What does it matter?”

Brae shrugged. “I’m just trying to understand why they attacked you in particular.”

“There’s no reason.” The orc bristled. “I’m carrying a rock to Dushnikh Yal for my chief, if you must know. It’s an ordinary chunk of orichalcum – you could find another like it by digging a hole.”

“Alright, alright. I’m not accusing you of anything.” Brae held her hands up in surrender. “It’s just strange.”

“You’re right, it is.” The orc glared at her. “And so is a mage attacking me, then another appearing from the direction the first disappeared in.”

Brae chuckled darkly. “Fair enough.” She pocketed the amulet. The orc’s eyes followed the movement of her hands suspiciously. Smart, she thought. You could never know when a mage might decide to flick their fingers and set you on fire. “We can freeze our asses off in this pass deciding if we’re going to kill each other all night if you’d like,” she said. “But personally I’d rather go back to my campfire, and judging by the look of you, it’d be best for you as well.”

The orc studied her, hand resting lightly on her blade, eyes dark and contemplative. It was hard to tell what she thought, or what she would do, and Brae felt magic tingle through her palm, a sparking warning of her own fear.

“Fine,” the orc said after what felt like a tense eternity, and her hand slipped from the hilt of her blade. “But don’t try anything.”

“Trust me,” Brae said. “I would never intentionally start something with someone like you at this range.”

“Was that meant to be reassuring?” The orc sent her a hard glare.

Brae shrugged, her lips curling upward. “Can you ride?”

“Of course.” The orc shot her an appraising glance, offering her the black horse, Alli’s, reins.

She took them, swinging Alli away from the grey to give the orc space. The orc stepped behind the grey, and Brae heard her grunt, then she swung up into the saddle, her face twisting into a grimace. Brae mounted Alli and turned her up the path, still watching the orc from the corner of her eye just as the orc watched her.

The back of the orc’s armor had been bent and cracked inward, and Brae could see a little blood seeping from the cracks. At a glance it didn’t look life-threatening, but she would have to see if she could convince her to let her treat it. She wished she had been a little more tactful earlier; things would be easier, but it was already done. With a shake of her head she let the light fade away. The horses would be able to see well enough, and the light would be a dead giveaway to anyone else who might want to start trouble.

Often, she found herself wondering why The Reach was like this. It wasn’t quite like the other holds – you could expect some bandits there, trolls, or maybe a necromancer – but in the mountains of The Reach anything could happen. It made sense, she supposed – it wasn’t as if there were regular patrols, or even effective law enforcement. In the end it all came back to the Silverbloods, and thus anything that would neither help them nor harm them didn’t matter.

She hated Markarth, The Reach, all of it – hated the time she had spent there, and hated that she was among its broken crags again. There was nothing there that wasn’t broken on some level, whether it was the stone or the people. But the damned students had to go and run off to do the nine knew what, so here she was. She hoped they were actually in Markarth and hadn’t gotten in trouble yet, and she could leave by the road and not look back. Maybe she would even stop and see Danica Pure-Spring in Whiterun.

There was a nagging worry eating at her, though, that had only been amplified by finding the token of Molag Bal. The conjurer who had disappeared, Brochard Collin, was a brilliant pupil, but as with many who dedicated themselves to the art there was a certain callousness about him. She didn’t want to suspect that he might have become involved with worshippers of Molag Bal, but she found she couldn’t rule it out either. The others, the illusionist and the battlemage, were also good students. And then of course there was the letter. Faidur, the battlemage, had left it. It said only that Brochard had been acting strangely, and that Faidur was concerned for him, but hoped everything would turn out alright. He hadn’t said where they were going, or what they were doing, and that was enough to cause alarm in and of itself.

They had last been seen in Solitude, in the markets. As best she could gather, they had purchased supplies, spent the night in the Winking Skeever, and then left by the western road. One of the vendors claimed to have heard them mention Markarth, but she hadn’t been sure. Why they would choose to pass through the rough hills instead of following the road was beyond her.

In all, it was a mess. She hated to see students go missing, and tried to keep them from biting off more than they were ready for with their research, but sometimes something slipped by her or Tolfdir. She relied heavily on him to tell her if something was going wrong, and if she was being honest, she didn’t feel like she was a good archmage, or even ready for that title.

It had all been so sudden and she wished she could take it back. But like everything, what was done was done. She just wished Ervine hadn’t been killed. She had been an excellent mage, and truly ready to be the archmage. But Ancano and the eye had cut her career unfairly short, leaving the line of succession in disarray. Brae wasn’t sure why they had picked her. Maybe because of the Psijics, or maybe because she was young and held a raw power that had rivaled even that of Savos Aren.

The Thalmor had been disconcertingly silent after the incident, and she couldn’t help but feel that they were just waiting for the right moment to reassert power over the college. She didn’t want them there, and she wouldn’t willing let them back in, but she wasn’t sure that she could stop them in the long run.

Her campfire glowed in the distance, flickering against the rocky road, and she snapped back to the present. The orc was still riding ahead of her, weaving a little in the saddle.

“Hey,” she called, voice sounding loud in the night. “I don’t think you’ve told me your name.”

The orc startled almost imperceptibly, her shoulders straightening. “I didn’t. Its Borgakh.”

“What do you do in your stronghold, Borgakh?”

“I train and hunt so one day, when I marry into another stronghold, I will not be a burden.” There was a hint of bitterness in her voice.

“You’re the chief’s daughter, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

Brae nodded slowly. “You don’t sound very happy about it.”

Borgakh grunted noncommittally. “I have a duty to my stronghold. How I feel about it does not matter.”

Brae was silent for a moment. “Why stay?”

Borgakh glanced at her over her shoulder. “I will not bring dishonor on my mother, and my foremothers.”

“Ah.” Brae nodded. “I suppose I understand.” She didn’t personally, but she knew some people had families they valued, and who’s approval mattered to them. Personally, if she could still tell her mother and father to go fuck themselves, she would. Sometimes it was startling to be reminded that not everyone felt that way.

They rode up to the fire, which was burning low after a few hour’s neglect, in silence. Brae leapt down from Alli and looped her reins over the branches of scrubby tree. She was turning to offer her help when she heard Borgakh curse, and the metallic thud of an armored body hitting the ground. She saw her struggling to sit up on the hard surface of the path, the grey sidling away from her carefully.

“You alright?” She asked.

“Great,” Borgakh said shortly.

“I am trained in healing, you know. I can help.”

“Orcs…” - Borgakh pushed up off the ground, swaying dangerously – “Let their wounds heal naturally.”

Brae raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Yes.” Borgakh took three shaky steps and collapsed by the fire, barely managing to remain sitting upright.

“I can still help, even if I don’t use magic.”

She heard Borgakh let out a heavy breath. “Fine.”

“I’ll deal with the horses. Take off your cuirass while I do that.” She took the grey and Alli, ignoring Borgakh’s grumbling, and tethered them loosely on the grassy margin of the path. They were far enough apart that they couldn’t tangle their ropes, but not so far that they would act stupid.

Borgakh had unstrapped her bulky orcish cuirass, and was eyeing Brae warily when she came back with the saddles. She set them down carefully, away from the fire, then returned Borgakh’s probing stare. “You’re going to need to take off the hauberk too.”

“How do I know you won’t stab me?” Borgakh’s eyes narrowed.

Brae sighed and undid the knife from her belt, dropping it in the dust. “I’m not going to knife you. Besides, the knife is for emergencies. If I wanted you dead, I could have just hit you with a lightning bolt.”

Borgakh rolled her eyes. “You talk big for someone who hasn’t shot a single lightning bolt yet.”

Brae chuckled. “Stick around long enough and it’ll happen.”

“Sure,” Borgakh said with a skeptical drawl, struggling out of her scaled hauberk.

The shirt underneath had been torn, and stained with blood. Brae knelt and carefully pushed it aside, exposing the damaged skin of Borgakh’s back. She winced, drawing in a sharp breath as Brae cleaned the injury. Most of the damage came from the armor caving in on impact, though a few cuts looked like they were made by knife-thin slivers of ice. None were overly deep, and most had stopped bleeding entirely.

“Well,” Brae said, sitting back on her heels. “You’re going to be pretty sore for a few days, but you won’t die.” She dug in her pack, pulling out a strip of bandages and a jar of ointment. “This is going to sting,” she cautioned. “Stay still.”

“Pain doesn’t” – Borgakh hissed, falling silent as Brae smeared the ointment on the wound. It was thick, and smelled of garlic and honey.

“It’ll keep the wound from going bad,” she said. “Help it heal faster. Breathe normal, now.” She wound a bandage around Borgakh’s middle, making sure it was snug but not too tight.

“What is that you put on my back?” She felt Borgakh draw in a shuddering breath.

“A mixture of honey, garlic, and a few other things. It stings to oblivion, but it does the job. Let me see the arm.” She shifted, sitting cross-legged beside Borgakh.

Borgakh sighed and pulled up her sleeve. “I think there may be a splinter in it,” she admitted ruefully.

“Did you pull the arrow?” Brae eyed the wound.

“It broke first, then I pulled it.”

Brae nodded and jerked a bloody sliver of wood from Borgakh’s arm. She yelped, muscles bunching. “Malacath! Warn me next time.”

“Hopefully,” Brae said, winding a bandage around her arm. “There isn’t a next time.” She tied the bandage carefully, and sat back. “That’s it, right, or did something happen to your leg?”

Borgakh shook her head. “It’s only strained. Nothing you can do about it.”

“Right then. You might want to put it up.” Brae stood and dropped her bag beside Borgakh’s legs, then walked to her bedroll and grabbed a blanket, tossing it across the fire to her. “Get some rest; I’ll keep watch.”

She settled on a log by the fire, the heat of the embers and low flames rising to meet her. It was pleasant – not so hot that it burned, but enough to ward off the cold mountain air. The hour was late, or very early, depending on how one viewed it. As best she could guess, it was sometime after midnight, probably one or two in the morning. She wouldn’t sleep – not after finding the amulet on the cultist’s neck. It sat heavy in her pocket, dull and cold, the contours poking into her side. She couldn’t tell if she was imagining the chill radiating from it, or if it was the work of an enchantment woven into the metal.

The orc, Borgakh, she reminded herself, eyed her from across the fire as she drew it from her pocket, running her fingers over the surface, probing as best she could for whatever lay beneath. The metal was definitely cold – too cold, and the face of Molag Bal seemed to laugh at her from her palm. She sucked in a breath, looking away. It was an evil thing, touched by cold she couldn’t imagine, and never wanted to know. Part of her wanted to hurl it into the shrubs beside the path, but she didn’t think that would be wise.

Instead she shuddered and slipped it back into her pocket, rising to pace in and out of the flickering firelight. She pulled Faidur’s letter from her breast pocket.

“To anyone who might find this,” was written over the now broken seal. “please deliver it to the Archmage.”

She unfolded it, scanning over the hastily written words again: _“Archmage Meric, my apologies for the trouble this will likely cause you, but I write to inform you of an unfortunate circumstance. My good friend and your pupil, Brochard Collin, has not been acting himself of late, and I fear he may have taken an interest in things best left alone. He has asked myself and Dravis Telloth to accompany him on a journey. I will be gone by the time you receive this letter, and will do my utmost to keep Brochard from bringing himself or the rest of us to harm. I hope we will return, and that you will not judge us too harshly. Regards, Faidur”_

Folding it again, she shook her head. There was too much unsaid in the letter for her to make sense of it. It left her uneasy, both for the students and for herself. She had made her fair share of enemies, and she wouldn’t put it beyond any of them to attempt to lure her into the wilderness of The Reach, then kill her where no one would see. But then again, Faidur hadn’t said where they were going; she had discovered that for herself. Still, nothing felt quite right, and she wasn’t sure if it was just her suspicious nature, or if there was really something there.

With a sigh, she sat back down by the fire. Borgakh looked like she was struggling to keep her eyes open, her head resting against the heavy pack she carried with her, and Brae’s blanket covering her haphazardly. Fire light glinted against her inky black hair, and Brae looked away, searching the darkness for nothing in particular.

She pulled a book from a pouch on her belt, flipping it open to her weathered marker. It was a treatise on magicka, long and dry as a bone, but filled with interesting theories. Though she worked with the stuff every day, she was as baffled as anyone else as to where it came from. The Eye of Magnus still troubled her. It was still out there somewhere, with the Psijics, wherever they were. Things like that never stayed gone, and usually came back at the worst possible moment. But time would have to tell.

It made her uncomfortable, knowing that she had only seen a tiny fraction of the eye’s power, and that it was still there, waiting for whatever the Psijics had seen coming. Thus far, the year 4E 198 could only be described as troubled, whatever that meant in the long run. She had left the university in Cyrodiil to get away from the endless politics, but Skyrim was just as bad in its own way. In some of the towns, the nords eyed her with suspicion that only grew when they recognized her accent as that of a reachman. She’d had to defend herself more than once in a vicious tavern brawl that started after the patrons downed a few too many cups of mead. It didn’t help that she was from the college and looked easy to take in a fist fight.

And of course there were the thalmor wandering unhindered across the land. The nords wanted them gone, and she did as well, but then the nords also wanted her gone, so she wasn’t sure what to think. Something felt sharp in the air - like a cord waiting to snap, not quite ready, but stretching thin. The only thing she knew for certain was that it was going to get worse before it got better.

When she looked up again Borgakh was asleep, her chest rising and falling slowly. She was big, even for an orc, Brae thought. She still wondered why the cultists had chosen her to attack. Maybe she had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time, or maybe she was a very good liar. But Brae didn’t think she was a liar; she had an air of blunt honesty and honor about her that would make lying difficult. Maybe the cultists had simply been looking for a victim, though she seemed like a bad traveler to make a victim of.

A few hours passed as Brae read by the low light of the fire, always listening for footsteps in the dark. All she heard were the horses, and a few small animals higher up on the mountainside. Yet later, in the grey twilight of very early morning, she heard Borgakh mumbling words in her sleep, voice incomprehensible and panicked. She tried not to listen, not that it really mattered, since most of the words were gibberish. But just the same, she wouldn’t want someone to listen to the things she said in her sleep - if she talked in her sleep – she didn’t know.

The sun rose early, high as they were, peaking over the mountains across the valley and shining up the path. She rose, stretching, and went to check on the horses. Alli raised her head, nickering and stepping forward as she approached. She smiled; the black horse had been with her for two years, and had carried her faithfully over many paths.

“Hey there,” she said, quiet in the early morning stillness, scratching Alli’s forehead. Both her and the grey seemed well rested and ready to ride.

When she returned to the fire Borgakh was sitting up, the blanket cast aside, and her damaged cuirass in her hands. She was painstakingly bending the sharp edges of metal outward so they wouldn’t cut into her back again. Brae supposed damaged armor was better than none, not that she had much experience wearing conventional armor herself beyond a sturdy leather jerkin.

“Ready to ride?” She asked, breaking the silence.

Borgakh looked up. “Almost, but there’s no need for you to wait. I can travel alone.”

Brae eyed her, a little surprised, though she wasn’t sure why. “If you say so,” she said. “I don’t think I need to tell you that these hills can be dangerous, though.”

“I can handle myself.” Borgakh stood, still a little unsteady, and pulled her hauberk over her head. “You have somewhere to be, and I have somewhere else to be. We’d slow each other down.”

Brae shrugged. “Alright. Just be sure to keep track of the bandages. Don’t leave them on too long.”

“I know,” Borgakh said, tightening the straps of her cuirass. She picked up her bow, running her fingers along the string as though suddenly self-conscious. “Thank you. It was more than I would ever expect from a stranger.” She bowed her head slightly.

“Don’t mention it,” Brae said. “It was the least I could” – but she didn’t finish her sentence. Someone was moving on the rocks behind them, and she spun, a ward flashing reflexively around her right hand just in time to catch a bolt of ice from above.

It shattered into a million pieces, refracting the morning light in a shimmering cascade, and she felt lighting coursing through her left hand, itching for a target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a general note on the timeline: for this fic, basically the canon timeline proceeds as normal, except the events of the college of Winterhold quests, and a few other minor quests, take place about four years before the start of the game, and a year before this story starts.


	3. A Storm in the Mountains

Electricity tingled, coursing through her skin, pure energy. She knew it wouldn’t hurt her - a bit of a thunderstorm bent to her will there in her hand. It was better than fire, better than the searing heat and the screams. Her left arm drew back, tensed, then snapped forward, lightning arcing through the early morning air.

Like a clap of thunder, the sound shattered the calm, reverberating across the mountainside. The dark figure on the rocks above stumbled, turning part of the attack away with a ward. Flames flared a split second before a fireball ripped from their fist. Brae’s eyes widened, and she braced forward, casting a ward with both hands. The explosion broke before her, fire rushing around the ward, and the force threw her back - tumbling across the path’s margin and into the scrub.

Her head spun, and the scent of fire threatened to tip her over the edge into a mix of panic and fury, but she struggled to her feet, searching for the figure on the rocks. They darted forward, fire flashing around their hands again, but she heard a sound - a snapping swish and a dull thud, and they stumbled, toppling down the slope bereft of life. Borgakh stood over the remains of the fire, lowering her bow as she let out a shuddering breath.

Brae took a stumbling step forward, forcing her breathing to slow and her mind to focus. A bit of her composure slid back into place as Borgakh turned, their eyes meeting. Hers were golden, and flickered with the intensity of battle. Brae looked away, instinctively hiding whatever her own betrayed.

“You weren’t lying about the lightning,” Borgakh said, a little out of breath.

Brae looked up, blinking. “I… no, no. It, ah, happens. From time to time.”

“You alright?” Borgakh gave her a questioning look.

“Fine. Well, yeah, fine.”

Borgakh raised an eyebrow, and Brae shook her head, willing herself to focus. She should check to make sure the mage was dead. Her feet seemed to move of their own accord, taking her across the path and to the base of the rock face rising above them. The mage was sprawled in the grass at the foot of a scrubby tree, part of their dark robes burned by her lightning, and an arrow lodged in their chest. It looked to have hit their heart, and blood was pooling beneath the body. She pulled their hood back, searching beneath the collar for another amulet. It was there, cold and unsettling just as the first. She left it on the mage’s neck, taking a step back.

“Another cultist?” Borgakh’s voice was quiet.

“Yes.”

“They must be the other one who attacked me last night.”

Brae flexed her right hand, the palm stinging where her ward had shattered in the explosion. “You’re lucky to be alive, then.”

Borgakh took a step forward, staring down at the body. “They could have followed me and killed me. I was easy prey. But they didn’t” – she looked up, eyes boring into Brae – “Why?”

Brae shrugged. “Maybe they wanted you alive – for something you have, or for a sacrifice. Although judging by how quick this one switched to fire, it wasn’t that important to them.” She chuckled darkly. “Done anything lately to catch Molag Bal’s eye?”

Borgakh shook her head, her brow knitting. “Of course not. Only an idiot would trifle with the likes of him.”

“Well.” Brae turned away from the body. “I don’t know what to tell you. Whatever their reasons, they seem persistent. You sure about travelling alone?”

Borgakh looked up along the ridge, her eyes trailing over the jagged stone, and up to the darkening clouds above. “I have orders from my chief, but he’s not here.”

Brae raised an eyebrow. “What do _you_ want?”

“That fireball would have hit me in the face if you hadn’t blocked it. If more cultists come, I would be a fool to face them alone. There is no honor is stupidity.” Her eyes twitched down, settling on Brae.

“Right then. Your chief doesn’t have to know, if that makes it better.” She glanced up and down the path. “We should go before more of them come.” Stepping past Borgakh, she hurriedly packed her things and kicked dirt in the remains of the fire. The embers still smoked a little as they rode away up the path.

The horses jogged up the slope, iron-shod hooves digging into the earth. Higher up, past a few steep ascents, Brae glanced back, looking out over the path, down to the cut, and out into the valley. Nothing moved other than the branches of the trees and the eagles in the distance, soaring high. She looked back ahead, toward the dark clouds billowing down over the mountain. They were riding into a mountain snow storm, the wind rushing through the rocks with a haunting sound, almost like the call of some animal hidden among the crags.

Brae shuddered, drawing her scarf over her face against the sudden bite of the cold. Snowflakes swirled in her eyes, enclosing her slowly until the world became the wind and snow, the narrow mountain path, and Borgakh’s back ahead of her. Her scarf grew rigid with ice, sticking to her face, and she blinked snow from her eyes. Alli picked her way carefully, lurching through drifts that came up to her knees. The big grey cut a path ahead, but the snow was still heavy, and obscured the ground.

It was harder to breathe higher up, the cold thin air biting in her nose and stinging her lungs. She coughed, sharp and rasping, the sound lost in the wind. The path wouldn’t stay above the snow line for that long, so it wouldn’t be too much of a problem. But she could feel her chest burning just the same.

Through the high pass she knew they would find the river and the rocky crossing. It wasn’t as big up high - only a little glacial stream threading down the valley between two larger peaks. She wouldn’t miss the snowy trail, but judging by the clouds it would be raining lower on the slopes. Mud in the mountains was something she liked to avoid, but in The Reach it was hard. She hoped it wouldn’t rain too much, otherwise the long hillsides would become dangerously unstable.

Common wisdom held that the high months of summer were good for traveling, but even in the early days of Last Seed it was a bad time to be in The Reach. She shook her head. Damned students, she thought, knowing it wouldn’t be the last time. They were adults, and could associate with all the daedric princes they wanted so long as they avoided the more unpleasant ones, and didn’t drag others along with them against their will. She wasn’t a Vigilant of Stendar, after all. Unfortunately, by no leap of the imagination could Molag Bal be considered not unpleasant. He was, all things considered, as unpleasant as they came.

Of course she worried for the students, and for the deals they might make, but she also worried for the people who would inevitably be dragged into their mess. She sighed, breath frosting in the air, and whispered a curse, hoping that the students weren’t as foolish as she thought they might be.

She and Borgakh climbed for a long time, the sun lost in the stormy sky, and the only sound the wind whipping down the mountainsides. In the snow, it was hard to tell exactly when they crested over the top of the pass and started down, but soon Brae was leaning back in the stirrups, bracing against the descent. Alli stumbled down the path, fighting to keep her footing, and it was all Brae could do to keep herself centered in the saddle. Ahead of her, she saw Borgakh leaning hard to the right as the grey lurched into a snowdrift. The snow became thinner downslope, and sleet pelted down, slowly shifting to rain. Ice slicked the path, but fortunately the ground beneath was soft enough for the horse’s hooves to break through into the mud.

Cold mud spattered Brae’s clothes and dripped from Alli’s legs and belly, and rain slanted down, driving into their faces. Brae blinked, water dripping from her hood and into her eyes, and she pulled the clammy fabric of her soaked scarf from her face. At least it was easier to breathe now that they were below the snows again.

The alpine valley spread below them, wreathed in mist and rain. It was beautiful, and if Brae hadn’t been drenched and cold she might have taken a moment to appreciate the view. The path became less steep, threading down between massive boulders strewn across a grassy slope. Some of them were jagged protrusions of ledge, and others had rolled from above long ago; it was a little frightening to imagine how they must have fallen, their weight carrying them downward. Still lower, the beginnings of the river ran, rushing down a rocky channel cut into the soft earth. It was rising in the rain, but didn’t look too high to cross yet.

Borgakh reined in her horse, looking back over her shoulder. The red paint splashed across her eyes was running in oily rivulets down her face, and the cropped hair on the sides of her head bristled.  “Think we can make it across?” She called, almost shouting over the rain.

“Only one way to find out,” Brae shouted back, not bothering to stop Alli.

Water rushed loud among the rocks, and she felt Alli brace against the current, feeling her way. Behind her, Borgakh cursed, and she heard the grey splash into the stream. Alli scrambled across the rocks and through the rising water, heaving up the opposite bank, and Brae looked back. Borgakh was close on her heels, the grey’s hooves digging into the muddy bank as she pulled herself out of the water.

Borgakh grimaced, leaning forward in her stirrups to help the grey scrabble up the bank. “Cursed rain,” Brae heard her mutter as she blew a droplet water from her lip.

The path ahead was sloppy and treacherous, and Brae let Alli pick her way carefully through the mud and the dislodged rocks. It ran another few miles down the alpine valley, then crossed low on the slopes of the Druadachs and passed into the jagged foothills that lined the long river valley which ran from the hills above Markarth to Haafingar. Borgakh fell in beside her, the big grey’s long strides easily matching Alli’s fast walk, and Brae glanced up at her from the corner of her eye. A persistent frown pulled at her lips, and a few strands of black hair hung limp in her eyes.

“Doing alright?” Brae asked.

Borgakh winced as she shifted in the saddle. “Fine.”

“Well, tell me if you want to stop. There are some places after the valley where we’ll be able to sit out the rain.”

“Good. The hills are dangerous in weather like this.” The fingers of Borkakh’s left hand – the injured one - twitched against her thigh.

“How’s the arm?”

“Stiff, but it won’t slow me down.”

“That was a good shot back there, by the way.” Brae glanced up at her again.

A hint of a smile tugged at Borgakh’s lips. “I did what was necessary.”

Brae looked ahead, eyes skimming over the slopes that rose on either side of them. There were a few scrubby trees high up, before the snow, but for the most part the valley was barren apart from the grass. The trail curved slowly up toward the ridges on the side opposite Mor Khazgur, and soon they were climbing again. It wasn’t steep this time, and the path stayed below the snow, but the biting wind and the driving rain combined to squash all joy from the climb.

Her breath misted in the cold, damp air. She was freezing – not just annoyingly cold, but bone-deep cold; the wind cut through her soaked clothes like a knife, and her teeth rattled in her skull like they were trying to escape. The rain had become sleet again on the slopes of the Druadachs, freezing to her clothes and the road alike. Coming out of the rainy valley, the cold was so much worse than it had been in the first pass, and her fingers were stiff and numb. She wasn’t sure how long they had ridden along the grey path, but she was certain it was well past midafternoon. On top of the cold, she was tired after standing watch the night before. She hadn’t slept well in days, and she felt like it wouldn’t take much to knock her off Alli’s back and down the stony slope to her left.

She tried to remember a time when she hadn’t been losing sleep over something, but she couldn’t. First it had been the Silverbloods and the Forsworn, then imperial politics. And now it was the college. It seemed she couldn’t help herself. Not that she was wrong to worry – given the circumstances it was probably for the best.

They were riding along the barren side of the mountains, little more than rock visible as far as the eye could pierce into the rain-clouded distance. Brae knew that had it not been for the rain, the cut of the karth river would have stretched beneath them, winding out toward Solitude and the sea of Ghosts; she was almost glad of the rain - otherwise she would be confronted by the dizzying extent of the drop only meters from the edge of the path.

 “There’s a cave ahead.” Borkakh’s voice tore her from her thoughts. “Shall we stop?”

Brae’s teeth were still chattering. “I wouldn’t mind if we did.”

She felt more than saw Borgakh’s eyes on her, but she didn’t speak – only turned her big grey toward the dark entrance of the cave a little way above the trail. It was a common stop for travelers, and didn’t extend far back into the mountains. On that particular afternoon bordering on evening it was unoccupied, and Brae swung down from Alli’s back, leading her into the darkness.

Taking care not to startle the horses, she cast a light, the stone walls of the cave leaping into harsh relief. It was still cold inside, but the wind could no longer reach her, and the rain lashed against the slopes outside, kept at bay by the mountain. Borgakh’s boots scraped against the floor, accompanied by the echoing footsteps of the grey, following her in out of the rain.

“Take care of the horses,” she said. “I’ll start a fire.”

Brae was too tired to ask how exactly she planned to do that, but she didn’t doubt that she could. There were dead coals and half-burnt logs strewn around, though none of them looked prone to catching fire without coaxing. It would be easy enough to light them with magic, but she didn’t like summoning up the fire lurking in her bones, so she took the grey without a word, leading the two horses back into the cave. They were sopping and dirty, mud spattered on their bellies, and coats soaked and flat. She tied them loosely, then pulled off their saddles and rubbed down their matted coats with a rag. It still surprised her how gentle the grey was, and how untroubled she seemed at being handled by a relative stranger – not that the hardy mountain horses of Skyrim were known for being skittish, but still, they were horses.

As she checked their hooves for bits of rock, the glow of a young fire sprang up, flickering in warm contrast to the magical light hovering just beneath the ceiling. Borgakh was crouched over the tenuous flames, a carefully guarded pile of kindling blazing against the half-burnt logs from the cave. Brae gave each of the horses a measure of oats from her saddlebags, then turned to the flames. She found herself hesitating, standing just outside the reach of their heat, watching Borgakh nurse them into something more than their tentative beginnings.

“I know you’re cold,” Borgakh said, casting a glance over her shoulder. “It’s a poor excuse of a fire, but it’s better than lurking with the horses.”

Brae stepped toward the fire, the smoke sharp against her nose, and the heat barely registering in her numb fingers. She took another step and the warmth hit her, at once intoxicating and painful; a shiver tore through her, and her hands ached as the feeling slowly returned. Sinking down opposite Borgakh, she stared into the strengthening flames.

Borgakh’s eyes flickered over her, then back to the fire. “Nothing like rain to make traveling a joy,” she said.

Brae chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, well, that’s the reach for you.”

“It’s no place for the weak.” Borgakh nodded. “Surviving it takes strength.”

“Strength, money, or brutality.”

“True enough.” Borgakh’s eyes flicked up again, reflecting the fire. “Your accent – it is of the reachmen.”

Brae blinked, caught off guard, and drew in a breath. “Aye. What of it?”

“Growing up here is hard. Danger is in the hills, whether you look for it or not.”

The fire leapt up, the old logs finally catching light, and Borgakh’s face was bathed in the red glow. Brae shook her head. “It’s always something. Guards, wildlife – you name it.”

“We’re fortunate to be far from anywhere important in Mor Khazgur,” Borgakh said. “I don’t admire Dushnikh Yal.”

“There are advantages to being a day’s ride from Markarth, but knowing Markarth, there are also plenty of downsides.” Brae didn’t like remembering Markarth, the choking dust of the smelter, or the guards that always seemed to be waiting for a reason to beat down the reachmen who lived in the warrens.

“The city of stone is a harsh place; I am glad not to know it well.”

“I wish I knew it less,” Brae said.

“You come from Markarth?” Borgakh was rummaging in her pack; she produced a bag of something, tied at one end with a twisted string.

Brae hesitated. She didn’t usually tell people where she was from; Reachmen were regarded poorly in most circles – barbarians and savages, people called them. Not that the forsworn did much to prove them wrong. But Borgakh had recognized the remnants of her accent despite her efforts to suppress it. “Yes,” she said after a long moment.

Borgakh nodded, preoccupied by the bag. It was food, Brae realized – dried meat to be exact. “Hungry?” She asked, holding it up.

It struck Brae how hungry she actually was. They hadn’t stopped to eat during the day, but the cold had distracted her from her growing hunger. “Yeah,” she said, her eyes unconsciously settling on the bag.

“Catch,” Borgakh mumbled past a strip of dried meat clenched in her teeth, tossing the bag across the fire.

            It was heavier than Brae was expecting, but she caught it just the same. The meat inside smelled like it had been smoked and brined, but she couldn’t tell what animal it was from; she took a piece and tied the bag shut again, tossing it back to Borgakh. The meat was tough, and she chewed it gingerly, letting it soften in her mouth. “Venison?” she asked.

Borgakh nodded, chewing. “We hunt deer in the valley.”

“Do you hunt?” Gods knew she was a good enough shot, Brae thought.

“Yes. I often ride with the hunters.”

“How far do you usually go?”

“Never beyond the reach, but we’ve been up and down the Karth more than once.”

“You’ve never left the reach?” Brae watched Borgakh through the flames.

She drew in a breath, an almost wistful expression flitting across her face. “No. I suppose I will one day, when I marry. Or perhaps not.”

Brae chewed her meat slowly, not sure what to say. Borgakh sounded disappointed by her lot in life, or at least not enthusiastic about it. But she could offer little more than hollow comfort.

Borgakh saved her the trouble of speaking. “How far have you been?” She asked. “Beyond the reach, I mean.”

“A long way,” Brae said, and it was true. “I’ve been to the imperial city, across Hammerfell, and the ash wastes of Morrowind - lived in High Rock for a time, though that’s not so far from here.”

“What’s the imperial city like?”

“Big.” Brae laughed. “Sorry, that’s not very descriptive. It’s on an isle in the middle of a huge lake; ships can sail in from the sea, so there’s a big dock down by the harbor. The streets are all stone – well, most of the city is stone, really - and you can see the White-Gold tower almost everywhere you go. Its tall – so tall it’s hard to believe. The sheer number of people there takes some getting used to. But it’s not what it used to be, or so I’m told, since it was sacked in the war.”

“My father was with the legion for a time,” Borgakh said, a distant look in her eyes. “I’ve thought of joining them myself, one day.”

“The empire does its best, at least for the most part. It would be a good way to see the world, though if you’re not careful you’ll end up in the middle of a second great war.”

“You really think that will happen?”

“I’ve been told I’m a pessimist, but everyone knows the White-Gold concordat won’t last, or at least they should. It was made to buy time. The empire knows it, and the thalmor know it. The real question is when it will break, not if.”

“The empire isn’t ready for that kind of war. Even Skyrim is barely holding together these days.” Borgakh stretched her hands toward the fire, flexing her fingers in the heat.

“No,” Brae shook her head. “You’re right, it isn’t. If they’re not careful they’ll lose Skyrim the same way they lost Hammerfell.”

“The nords haven’t always been kind to my people,” Borgakh said, her expression turning pensive. “I’d rather not live in the Skyrim their militia wants.”

“Aye. I’ve no love lost for Ulfric Stormcloak’s people. That’s something orcs and reachmen can agree on, I think. They think they’re rebels, and unless something changes they probably will be. But there will be little good in their rebellion for us.” Brae looked down at her hands in the red light of the fire. She had blurry memories – of nord soldiers riding into Markarth, of people running, screaming. Of worse. She swallowed, her fingers tensing into fists.

Borgakh was watching her, she realized, eyes dark and contemplative across the fire. Whatever she thought, she kept it to herself, and after a moment her eyes flickered away to the entrance of the cave. Darkness was falling outside, Brae realized. In the rain it was hard to tell the time exactly, but loosely she could tell it was around sundown. She had let the magical light go out long ago, and the only light in the cave was that of the now robust fire, its heat licking through her clothes and banishing the damp cold.

She hadn’t spoken of Markarth in a long time – didn’t like to admit her ties to it or the reachmen. But Borgakh had asked, and she had spoken so easily, like it wasn’t a secret at all. She had recognized the accent, as some did, so it would be pointless to deny, Brae reasoned. Most who knew her were too chained by politeness or status to acknowledge it.

As if to settle her thoughts, which were going in too many directions to follow, she shook her head, clambering up off the ground. Her legs were stiff, and she walked gingerly to the mouth of the cave, looking out into the driving rain. It showed no signs of abating, though she still hoped it would stop sometime in the night. Wind rushed, water ran, and somewhere in the distance a wolf howled. She shivered, glad to be in the cave, and not still riding along the precarious path; she did not envy the wolf out in the wet and the cold.

With a sigh, she turned away from the storm. Borgakh still sat by the fire. She was carefully settling another stick into the flames, taking care not to burn herself.

“How are the bandages?” Brae asked, suppressing a yawn.

Borgakh glanced up at her. “Soaked, unfortunately.”

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Brae frowned. “Wet bandages on a fresh wound are worse than nothing.”

“It’s not that bad.” Borgakh shrugged. “But you can change them if it would make you feel better.”

“It would.” Brae gave her a look that she hoped wasn’t too hard. “Lose the armor.”

She retrieved her pack and set to work. The old bandages had indeed soaked through, though the outer layers had begun to dry again, and she pealed them away as gently as she could; they hadn’t been on long enough to cause any harm, fortunately, and she rebandaged the wounds.

“Am I dying of wet bandages?” Borgakh asked, the corner of her mouth twitching up slightly as Brae tied off the cloth around her arm.

“Joke all you like,” Brae said, pulling it snug. “But you won’t think it’s funny if the hole in your arm gets infected.”

“Fair.” She let out a breath as Brae’s hands left her arm.

Brae straightened, shaking her head and stuffing her things back into her pack. She stifled a yawn as she stepped past the fire.

“You should rest,” Borgakh said, and Brae could feel her eyes on her again. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Are you sure?” Brae glanced at her. She looked strong and alert, and if she hadn’t just treated her wounds she would never have guessed they were there.

Borgakh nodded. “Yes.”

“Alright.”

Brae set up her bedroll on the edge of the firelight, just within reach of the warmth, but shrouded in shadow. The bedroll was mercifully dry, the oilskin of her pack having protected it, and she kicked off her still-damp boots, settling on the thin canvas and fur pad. She could feel the hard stone through it, but it was better than nothing, and she was finally warm all the way through.

Borgakh was silent by the fire, staring out into the night. The paint on her face had dried in a haphazard smear in the heat of the fire, the dark red standing out against her grey-green skin in the orange light.

With a sigh, Brae flopped onto her back. She didn’t sleep well on the road, especially when others were near. Honestly, she didn’t sleep well in general, but it was worse when she couldn’t put a locked door between herself and anyone or anything else that might be in the vicinity. It didn’t help that her traveling companion might be being hunted by deadric cultists. But staying awake wouldn’t help – she would just be less effective the next day.

She forced her eyes shut. The fire crackled to her right, the wood snapping and popping, and moisture hissing out of the old logs. Outside, the wind whipped and the rain beat down. Borgakh shifted her weight and sighed, the armor she still wore making a miniscule noise. Brae fought the urge to open her eyes. There was no reason to suspect Borgakh, she told herself – no reason to be on edge. No more than usual, anyway.

Despite her mind’s best efforts, she did drift off eventually, the fire and the rain fading away till her thoughts mercifully let her rest.


End file.
